by J. D. Weston
“Now, Kane,” screamed Gabriella.
But Kane lowered the weapon.
He stood staring wide-eyed at the prime minister, who was shouting at him to pull the trigger, to save his family.
Kane shook his head.
He dropped the weapon to the ground.
The prime minister glanced back at his family.
And Gabriella gave the signal for the charge.
A surge of people stormed through the gates of the marina. Their chants turned to battle cries. The rhythmic stomping of their feet, which had percussed the initial negotiations, gave way to a flood of heavy boots that charged at the prime minister and Kane.
“May God be with you all,” said Gabriella, and lowered the radio as a wave of bodies engulfed the two men.
Gabriella lowered the rifle to the floor of the tower.
Harvey stepped up behind her.
“For you, my brother,” she whispered.
But her sentiment was lost to sudden confusion as, from nowhere, bright spot lights lit the riot on the ground below. She searched the skies for the source of the lights as a familiar sound became clear, carried to the church tower during a brief lull in the wind.
The scene below grew brighter. Then, to Gabriella’s despair, two military helicopters shot past either side of the church tower, banking hard to come to a hover above the rioting crowd.
Cries of anger rose up from the battle below and the fighting intensified.
“No,” screamed Gabriella, leaning from the tower into the wind and the rain. “Finish them.”
The side doors of the choppers opened and two ropes dropped from both helicopters.
Gabriella fumbled for the rifle behind her, but found nothing.
She turned to look and pressed her neck into the blade of Harvey’s waiting knife. But before he could react, she arched backward, rolled, and sprung to her feet.
“Monsieur Stone, you’re just in time for the fun,” said Gabriella, keeping the huge church bell between them.
Keeping Gabriella in sight, Harvey followed her around the bell, the narrow walkway no wider than the length of his boots.
Below the bell, a pitch-dark chasm fell to the depths of the church. Behind Harvey was a drop to the ground of Saint-Pierre, where the cobbled streets below would break every bone in his body.
But Gabriella moved with feline grace, stepping forward then back, taunting Harvey and laughing at his clumsy attempts to follow her.
With his free hand, he tossed the rifle from the tower, where it landed without a sound on the street below.
“I can’t let you do this, Gabriella,” said Harvey. “You lied to me.”
“You would never have helped me if you had known the truth, Harvey,” replied Gabriella, backing away around the narrow circular walkway.
Matching her step for step, Harvey followed her, watching her feet below the rim of the bell.
He shoved at the giant bell, but the weight was too great and the swing too slow to make an impact. The deafening chime of the huge, hollow bronze filled the tiny space and Gabriella’s feet danced to one side.
Harvey lurched to grab her, but she slipped away as the bell receded. He followed, using the short dwarf wall to stop him from falling over the edge. But Gabriella was too fast and nimble.
Using the momentum of the bell, she forced it toward him on the return swing. Harvey dove to the stone floor as the bell swung over him. He searched the walkway opposite for Gabriella as the swinging bell sang its song, loud and proud for the entire town to hear.
But she wasn’t there.
He jumped to his feet, sidestepped the deafening bell once more, and edged around the walkway.
But there was no sign of her.
Behind him, a helicopter turned its spotlights on the church tower and banked towards them.
“The fun’s over, Gabriella,” said Harvey. “You can’t escape from this.”
A short burst of automatic fire caused a series of tiny explosions in the church’s stonework. Harvey dropped to the floor once more as the gunfire tore into the wall behind him. He peered over the parapet wall to find a man in military fatigues preparing for another burst.
The helicopter banked as the pilot sought a new angle, but as Harvey stood, Gabriella swung from the rafters above. Her feet caught him square in the face, forcing him backward into the low parapet wall.
Gabriella dropped to the floor in front of him and began an onslaught of punches that connected with Harvey’s already bruised body, never landing in the same place twice. The first rocked his head to one side. The second caught his solar plexus, winding him. He bent forward, sucking in air as the third blow, an uppercut, sent him reeling backwards.
The reprise allowed him time to block the next round of punches. Seeing a gap in Gabriella’s attack, he lurched forward and smashed his forehead into her face.
She spat blood from her mouth, and smiled as the downdraft from the rotor blades ripped at her clothes and sent her hair waving in all directions. As the gunman opened fire once more, she ran at Harvey. Her shoulder slammed into his gut and her feet scrambled on the stone floor for purchase, forcing him back further and further until there was no more walkway and the back of his legs found the low parapet wall.
His knees buckled as another burst of gunfire pinged off the still swinging bell. Gabriella screamed, giving everything she had and forcing Harvey over the wall.
His hands found nothing to hold.
A sickening feeling rushed from his gut to his mouth as his feet left the stone floor and the empty space swallowed him whole.
The touch of stone as his hands found the parapet wall.
The jolt of his body.
One hand slipped off the smooth stone and fell away.
His boots scrambled for a foot hold, dangling from the tower.
And Gabriella rose up with raw malice in her reddened eyes, fury coursing through her veins, and her arms raised high above her head, poised to send Harvey to his death.
Through the fog of rain, a wave of angry faces burst through the gates of the marina.
The battle cry roared.
The prime minister glanced back to his family. Then, standing, he prepared to meet his fate.
“Get on the boat, sir,” said Kane, grabbing his gun from the wet ground. He moved to stand before the prime minister, forcing the man behind him with his arm. Then he opened fire on the surging crowd of rebels.
The first two men dropped to the ground, their bodies trampled underfoot by the following masses, who seemed to swell with anger the closer they got.
Shoving the prime minister backward, Kane emptied his handgun into the crowd. The few that fell were swallowed by the rebels that rose over them like a wave, closing the distance.
“I said get on the damn boat, sir,” said Kane to the prime minister, who was frozen to the ground with shock. “Get on the boat and get out of here.”
Kane threw the gun at the storming crowd, turned, and shoved the prime minister away.
The prime minister was transfixed at the crowd of surging rebels. He walked backward with slow steps, his eyes flicking from Kane to the crowd and back at his family.
“Run, sir,” shouted Kane.
He turned to face the crowd, planting his back foot into the concrete. He opened his arms and, as the first helicopter tore across the sky above the marina, the mass of rebels engulfed him, lifting him from the ground.
Blow after blow found Kane’s body, rocking his head from side to side. Heavy boots connected with his back, cracking a rib that stabbed into his lung. The stamp of another foot snapped his leg back. The rounded face of a bat crushed his groin then raised into the air for a second blow.
Bright lights danced above him like angels, thundering overhead as consciousness faded in and out like the tide of the sea across broken rocks, revealing the world in all its glory then smothering it for the forces of the world to do its damage.
Black shapes fell from the bright light
s.
Gunfire ripped through the night.
Kane was hoisted into the air. Vicious hands clawed at his skin and pulled at his hair as Kane approached his final battle. Death hung above him in the form of an enticing hand urging him forward.
The bat found another rib, issuing a spurt of blood from Kane’s mouth. As his head fell back, his eyes fell upon the prime minister who stood leaning on the handrail of his yacht some fifty metres from the dockside.
The angry crowd hurled rocks and abuse at the boat. But those that dove into the sea were cut down by the angels from above.
For the smallest fraction of time, before the angry hands of the rebels grabbed onto his arms and legs, Kane thought he saw the prime minister offer him a smile in a shared moment of understanding. All was forgiven. The drug, Afghanistan, the murders. All of it. Every wrong decision he’d ever made.
The slate had been wiped clean.
Honour was finally his.
And as the rebels tore his body apart, the cost of his honour was death.
17
Little Wing
A burst of gunfire ricocheted off the bell.
Gabriella lunged, knocking Harvey. His hands gripped the wall, but the smooth stone offered little purchase. One of his hands fell away, leaving him hanging above the street below.
She raised her arms high, summoning all of her strength. With her back arched, she let out a scream, wild and furious, as she struck to bring Harvey’s knife down onto his own hand.
But Gabriella’s attack was stalled mid-strike.
Three burning hot stabs of lead punched three holes into Gabriella’s flesh.
The chopper maneuvered to gain a better angle.
Her attack faltered then faded away.
She dropped the knife to the stone floor.
A single shot found the flesh of her leg while two more rounds buried themselves in the stone wall.
And suddenly, everything was real.
Her father in his tan corduroys and under-vest, leaning on his garden fork, displaying the paunch with pride.
The clear profile of Francis’ strong features against the window of the car as he reached across and pulled the blanket over her.
Then the heavy boots and batons with the crack of bones and teeth and the image of her father lying in a pool of his own blood. The police moving on to find some other protester’s family to destroy.
And the whomping of the helicopter overhead, shining bright lights into the car.
A gunshot.
The windscreen cracked.
More gunfire, forcing Francis off the road to Paris, where they rolled, flipped and bounced along the tarmac. Soft, wild grass had caught Gabriella in its arms when she’d been thrown from the rolling car. It left her conscious enough to see the wreckage come to a stop and Francis’ body bury itself through the shattered glass.
Harvey’s straining eyes stared up at her as she fell forward onto the parapet wall.
The ground below became a blur of shiny, wet cobbles in the half-light of the morning as her weight carried her over the edge.
Weightlessness as if she hovered above her memories.
A light, bright and mesmerising. She reached for it with both hands.
The ground below with its welcoming open arms.
But a strong hand found her wrist.
Her body jerked to a standstill and her feet swung in the air like lead weights that pulled her down.
She opened her eyes as a rush of wind from the chopper blades spat dust into her face, stinging like a thousand bees.
Above, Harvey looked down at her, pleading with her to hold on to his hand.
But her power was gone, her strength diminished.
The bright light worked its way across the stone wall of the tower once more, lighting Harvey Stone like he was a fixture of the structure, a gargoyle, devoid of comedy, or anger, or fear.
Three shots sang out like the beat of a drum, the finale of a sick masterpiece. Three more rounds tore through her skin, smashing through bone and organ.
The gunman in the helicopter positioned for the final shot, signing to the pilot to turn, who was fighting the heavy wind and rain.
The time was close.
She met Harvey’s eyes staring down at her from above.
He was calling to her, but the deafening beat of the helicopter swallowed all sound save for the voices of her family who called for her to join them.
Her mouth opened but the words were lost to gunfire.
Harvey screamed at the gunman.
His hand slipped further. He was hanging by the fingers of one hand with Gabriella hanging from the other.
She could feel his strength crushing her wrist.
His power was etched on his straining face.
She shook her head at Harvey Stone. The gunman fired his final shots, loosening Gabriella from Harvey’s grasp as she fell into the open arms of her father.
18
Stone Free
Aching muscles groaned at Harvey’s weight as he hauled himself over the parapet wall then slumped to the floor, numbed by fatigue. Heavy winds forced the onslaught of rain sideways into the tower, as if it cleansed Harvey of recent events.
A momentary lull in the thundering rotor blades allowed him a reprise. Sleep crept in before reflections of the past, the present and the future could take root. Instead, the cool stone floor and patter of rain on his face allowed him to slip further into the slumber.
A hand, gentle but firm, touched his shoulder, triggering Harvey’s defences.
But the darkness had him in its grip.
He lay still, open to a blade across his throat, offering himself to be cut wide open.
But no blade appeared.
The hand touched his forehead.
“We must go,” said the voice of an old man, his tone urgent and hushed.
But the command faded away to thoughts of Melody, his house, and sheer silence.
Another set of hands joined the first; they gripped his shoulders and hauled Harvey to his feet.
The priest and another man, both robed and equally cautious of the circling helicopters, each took an arm to support Harvey’s weight and led him to the staircase. Using the curved wall for support, Harvey descended, urged on by the priest behind, and his momentum controlled by the man in front.
The high, vaulted ceilings greeted Harvey once more, and though the daylight had been dim outside, it seemed to sing through the stained glass windows of the church.
“There’s no time. They will come for you. I know a secret way out,” said the priest.
He coaxed Harvey forward. The other man waited at an open door, his eyes flicking to the main entrance at the far end of the church. The priest caught the attention of his friend.
“Jacques, we will take the tunnel. Make the arrangements for Monsieur Stone’s escape.”
“D’accord,” replied Jacques, and held the priest’s gaze in a silent goodbye.
“Hold them for as long as you can,” said the priest.
Nodding, Jacques walked towards the main entrance as the brakes of a car squealed to a stop outside. Voices of authority barked orders in French.
Jacques turned to face Harvey and the priest.
“Go now,” he said. Then he caught Harvey’s eyes. “Peace be with you.”
Harvey tried to read between the lines on Jacques’ face; sincerity, gratitude, fear.
Harvey replied with a nod, catching the glint in the man’s eyes, then followed the priest as the church doors burst open and the sound of heavy boots echoed through the vaulted ceiling.
Lit only by the burning flame of a single torch, the two men made their way down to the very pit of the church. The staircase opened out into a larger space with arched alcoves featuring stone effigies of strong faces and bold stances that cast shadows as the flame passed by. In the ceiling, a circular opening offered a glimpse of the daylight high above. Harvey stared up at the underside of the giant bell.
&nb
sp; “Hurry,” said the priest, stopping at the entrance to a dark tunnel. “This way.”
The torch flame lit the arched, stone ceiling, but faded before the end was in view.
“Can you walk?” asked the priest, securing his robes tight. “It is quite some distance.”
Harvey didn’t reply.
Instead, he followed the flame as heavy footsteps began to echo behind them.
They followed a series of bends, long and sweeping, as men’s voices entered the tunnel. Bend after bend, the two men pushed on with their pursuers close behind. Twice, the priest stopped to help Harvey, who limped with one hand holding the wound on his leg and the other clutching his bruised ribs.
But try as he might, Harvey’s broken body refused to push faster than a slow limp. They stayed one bend ahead of the men behind them until, at last, daylight lit the arched exit ahead. The priest doused the torch in a pool of rain water then broke through a tangled mass of leaves and roots. He held them high enough for Harvey to limp through after him then dropped them to cover the tunnel once more.
Shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight, Harvey followed the priest, who pulled him along with more strength than Harvey expected. The ground was soft underfoot and waves crashed close by. As Harvey’s vision returned, he saw a wall of rocks to his right and the sea to his left. In the distance, the town of Saint-Pierre enjoyed the calm that follows a Mediterranean storm.
The wind had fallen. The sun had risen high. The grey sky that Harvey had stared up at from the top of the church tower had been replaced with a crisp sheet of blue, dotted with stretching fingers of white clouds that seemed to reach across the sky forcing the storm on to somewhere else.
Standing beside the rocks were two local, teenage boys, grinning from ear to ear and speaking in French too fast for Harvey to understand. They leaned on Harvey’s motorcycle and beamed with pride.
“My bike,” Harvey said, and turned to face the priest.
“Do not take me for a simple priest, Monsieur Stone,” he said, dismissing Harvey’s surprise as he walked through the soft sand. Then he gave a cautious glance back to the tunnel. “You must go. It is not safe for you. Follow the beach west and stay close to the rocks. When you are clear of the town, you will find the beach road.”
